


Over the River and Through the Woods

by scifigrl47



Series: Phil Coulson's Case Files of the Toasterverse [17]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Story, Fluff, Gen, M/M, No matter what the world wants to tell you Christmas is not easy, dealing with family, dealing with other people's family, sometimes Christmas isn't easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's five days before Christmas, and Clint Barton is on his way to a SHIELD approved safehouse.</p><p>It's not his choice and it's not something he's happy about, and that was before he found out where he'd be spending the next week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [i3fiddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i3fiddy/gifts).



> Months and months and MONTHS ago, I did an art trade with Tumblr user 3fiddymore. She was kind enough to do her part right away. I was an unreliable loser who never managed to live up to my side of the bargain.
> 
> Lesson here, kids, is never trust me with a fic prompt, I'm so slow it's almost not worth it.
> 
> Anyway, I finally managed to do this, and hopefully, she is pleased with the results, even though it's a Christmas story that didn't manage to be finished by Christmas.
> 
> Note: reading this is less confusing if you've read "Phil Coulson Was Not Grown In a Lab (He Has a Mother)" even though that one is STILL unfinished. Yeah. I'm... Unreliable. 8)

“It's five days before Christmas!”

Maria Hill let out a breath that was almost a sigh. Almost. “This may shock you, Agent Barton, but I am aware of the date.” She was studying the pre-flight checklist on her clipboard. “I have a calendar, and unlike you, I actually check it.” Her eyes cut in Clint's direction. “It is December 20th, and that does, in fact, make it five days before Christmas. Do you have a reason for sharing this information?”

“I don't know,” Clint said, from between clenched teeth. “Maybe because I had plans for the coming week?”

“And I'm sure they were fascinating plans. Knowing you, they were very important plans, possibly involving video games and alcohol.” Hill shook her head in his general direction. “I regret to inform you that there's been a change to them.”

“There were things other than video games and alcohol,” Clint said, and Hill turned her head, not quite fast enough to hide a smile. He counted that as a point for him, because hell knows, he didn't score many off of Hill. “I haven't wrapped my Christmas gifts. Also, I haven't BOUGHT my Christmas gifts.”

“That's what internet two day shipping is for,” Hill said, even as she continued checking over the small Cessna that had delivered them to this backwater regional airport at the ass end of nowhere.

“Does Amazon ship to SHIELD safehouses?” Clint asked, letting his head fall back with a thump. “I didn't even see ROADS on the flight in.”

“Try it and I'll break your legs.”

“Wouldn't it be easier just to block my internet connection?” 

“Yes, but not nearly as much fun.” She glanced in his direction, and there was something close to sympathy on her face. “As soon as we get things sorted out, we'll bring you back in. Whatever it is that you're carrying-” She slanted him a stern look. “We need you safely out of reach until we figure out a way to extract it. And you know it.”

“Doesn't mean I like it,” he grumbled, shifting his weight. His bag shifted with him, and he tugged it higher on his shoulder. His smallest bow case was leaning against his leg, a comforting weight that he'd refused to be without. Everyone, from Phil to Steve to Fury himself, had assured him that he wouldn't need it, that they were getting him out of town more for expediency than any sort of danger, but Clint had put his foot down. He didn't have a choice about being bundled out of New York under the cover of darkness, but he was not going to go without his bow.

That was asking far too much of him, and they knew it.

“You're a SHIELD agent, highly trained, highly decorated and, oddly enough, very highly regarded,” Hill said, her lips quirking up in a half smile. “You should be used to not liking your orders.”

“I'm used to it, ma'am, doesn't mean I take 'em without a fight.”

Hill paused, her fingers coming up to the comm unit in her ear. “We have incoming extraction vehicle,” she said, her voice crisp. “Open doors, keep the perimeter.” Her hand dropped to her side. “The safehouse team has arrived. Ready?”

He resisted the urge to say something distinctly rude and probably obscene. As good as it might feel in the moment, he'd regret it later. “As ready as I'll ever be,” he said instead.

The door to the hanger opened, and Clint pushed himself upright, looking up in time to see a recent model minivan come rolling through the gap. As it toddled in their direction, the most innocuous pick-up vehicle Clint had ever seen, he waited, and seethed. His arms crossed over his chest, his head down, he tried not to resent the whole situation. He hated this. He hated it so much. He hated not knowing where he was, or having any control over his own life, and more than that, he hated the fact that his team was somewhere, fighting without him.

Mostly, he hated the very real suspicion that they didn't need him, that they'd get along just as well even if he wasn't there.

“You owe us one,” Hill said, just as the minivan rolled up next to them. Clint's head snapped in her direction, confused, but she just smiled, and went back to her clipboard.

The passenger side window came down, and Shirley Coulson leaned out, removing her sunglasses as she did. “Sorry we're late,” she said, her voice breezy. “We hit rush hour traffic on the interstate.” Beyond her, in the driver's seat, Jason waved, a cheerful smile on his face.

Clint stared. “What?” he asked at last.

“Isn't a problem,” Hill said to Shirley. “Sorry about the early arrival.”

“What can you do,” Shirley said, smiling as Jason put the minivan into park. She stepped out of the van, offering Hill a hand. “Airline schedules. Nothing's convenient, even when you're setting the schedule.” She turned Clint, and her smile stretched, warm and bright. “It's so good to see you, Clint.”

He realized his mouth was hanging open and considered doing something about that, but before he could, he was getting hugged. “You're looking wonderful, Phil said that you took a bit of a tumble last month, I assume that you've healed up fine.” She leaned back, her hands solid on Clint's shoulders. “How're you doing?”

“Uh,” Clint said.

“Hey, there, son, here, let me get your bags,” Jason said, wrestling Clint's bag off of his shoulder and scooping up his weapons kit. “Traveling light I see, probably for the best, don't you worry, if you've forgotten something we can swing by the mall, grab whatever you need.”

“I am not going to the mall five days before Christmas,” Shirley said.

“Target?”

“Oh, that is so much worse than the mall, absolutely not.”

“What is happening here?” Clint asked no one in particular.

“You're being shanghaied,” Shirley said. She turned back to the car, coming up a moment later with a red tin covered in white snowflakes. “For the Director.” Hill took it without a blink. “The usual shipment.”

“Your country thanks you for your service,” Hill said, and she managed to say it with a straight face, which was impressive, even for Hill. Considering that Clint was about ninety percent certain that she'd traded him for a tin of cookies.

“Not the first time I've heard that,” Shirley said, sounding amused. “Let's go, Clint. You can explain the situation on the way.”

“Merry Christmas,” Hill said. When Clint shot her a shell-shocked look, she smiled. “Enjoy the holidays with your in-laws.”

“I'm not-”

“Load it up,” Jason said, slamming the trunk. “And let's go.”

And seeing no other option, Clint went.

*

“So that mess in Queens a couple of weeks ago, it wasn't a gas main explosion, which is the stupidest goddamn cover story, everyone knows that's code for 'government coverup,' whatever mid-level bureaucrat that splattered that all over the media, Fury's gonna throw the guy off of the helicarrier without a parachute. Seriously, he's at that point.

“But it wasn't a gas leak slash explosion, it was an alien craft crashing into a 7-11 in Queens, and I'd like to say, when did we become a rest stop on some extraterrestrial interstate? I mean, we go a couple of million years without any alien species interacting with us in any real way, and then, all of a sudden, they're wandering through half a dozen a year? Why? Was there some sort of detour that put us right in the middle of main street, milky way?

“Anyway, there was an alien crash, and I was the first one on the scene, because I'd been grabbing lunch nearby. It sucks, because this is going to really mess with my ability to grab a burger at that diner, but that's life, I guess. But I was eating a cheeseburger when an alien craft crashed about a mile away, and I was the first idiot to get there and the only one who got in while the pilot was still alive. 

“He didn't live long, just long enough to grab my arm, and drag me down for a kiss. Which was weird, but apparently, that's what their guardian warriors do when they want to pass on their duty and their mantle as intergalactic cops. They make out.”

Clint took a huge bite of his doughnut. “And that,” he mumbled, his mouth full, “is how I ended up being the vessel for an immortal alien energy force. 'Cause a dying alien kissed the first guy who came in range, and it happened to be me.”

Shirley was leaning to the side, staring at him over the top of her seat. “Well,” she said at last, eyebrows arching. “Is that all?”

“Don't that beat all,” Jason mused, sipping his coffee, one hand on the steering wheel. His eyes flicked up to meet Clint's in the rear view mirror. “How's that- I mean, what's that like?”

Clint shrugged. “No different than any other Tuesday,” he said. “Other than spending two days in SHIELD medical and quarantine lockdown while everyone in the tri-state area with a medical degree or a passing interest in space got to poke me with science.”

He reached for another doughnut. “What they finally decided was that while I was, in fact, carrying a massive amount of alien energy, I was just, literally, a vessel for it. I can't use it, it doesn't bother me, it's just kind of there, like a tacky Christmas sweater that you're obligated to wear for a few days and then get rid of as quickly as possible.”

“Also, it's itchy as hell.” Clint resisted the urge to just lie face down on the bench seat and pretend none of this was happening. Instead, he took a vicious bite from the doughnut, sending powdered sugar in all directions. “But they say I'm not a threat to myself or anyone else, really. They gave me this.” He held up his arm, showing off the heavy silver watch that was clamped around his left wrist. “It's a monitoring bracelet, keeps track of my vitals, makes sure there's no change in my status, gives me warning if I start going nova or something, and it's a semi-accurate watch.” He tugged his jacket back down to cover it. “SHIELD quality.”

“Uh-huh,” Shirley said. She sipped her coffee. “And that resulted in you ending up with us, how?”

“Well, the dying guy's people showed up a few hours after he dumped this on me,” Clint said. “Turns out they want his energy signature back.”

“And you don't want it, so why-”

“'Cause them getting it back involves killing me, and I objected to that a little,” Clint said. He shrugged. “I mean, yeah. Not real interested in a second kiss of death in less than a month, especially when I'm the one doing the dying.”

Shirley hid a smile behind her cup. “I think I would object to that, too.”

“Right?” Clint grinned. “So there was a lot of yelling, and Thor dented a couple of ships and Stark dented a couple of foreheads and people were throwing words like 'intergalactic war' around and Agent Brand decided that if we wanted to negotiate, I needed to not be around. Get the hell out of Dodge, as they say.”

He slumped lower in his seat. “So my team's heading to a highly fortified SHIELD base, and I am not, and things are mostly under control, the alien race has been very calmly negotiating for the return of their 'genetic property,'” he said, making finger quotes as he said it, “but for my safety and SHIELD's peace of mind, they said that I was going to a safe house.”

Clint paused. “How did I end up in the back of your minivan?”

“Well,” Shirley mused, her index finger tapping against her coffee cup, “Phil called and said that you needed a place to lay low for a few days, that it wouldn't result in any danger to us or you, but he'd consider it a personal favor if you could just crash in his old room for a few days until he got a few things straightened out.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Since we'd been nagging him for coming home for Christmas for the last few months, only to be told that there was no way he could manage it this year, we thought that keeping you as a hostage might work out in our favor.”

“Also, we're very happy to have you as a guest,” Jason said, his voice cheerfully. 

“Also, that,” Shirley said, a puckish smile on her face. “It's absolutely lovely to have you. The children will be so excited that you've come for a visit.”

“Oh, the boys'll be over the moon,” Jason agreed. 

“That's... Good,” Clint managed, and he didn't know if it was good or not, but he wasn't going to examine it too closely because he was going to have a screaming breakdown if he did. He did not want to think about the fact that he was in the backseat of a minivan with Phil's parents and a really bad cover story. Clint reached for another doughnut. “Does this qualify as a safe house?”

“We have clearance,” Shirley said. “Don't worry. You'll be perfectly safe.”

Clint stopped, cinnamon dribbling down his sleeve. “Wait, Phil's room?”

*

“They put me in your room.”

“Oh, good. I had the best view.”

Clint stood in the middle of the room, his bag leaning against his leg. “That's all you have to say? 'Good, I had the best view?'”

“Not sure what else you're expecting, Barton, but yes. That's all I have to say.” Phil paused. “Are you mad about the room or being there?”

Clint took a cautious step towards the window. “Mostly the first one, but I think I could be pissed about both and really be reasonable, don't you think?”

“Maybe,” Phil admitted. 

“You dumped me on your family.” Clint considered the view from the windows. It really was nice, a clear look over the rolling hills and forests that surrounded the old farmhouse. Snow covered everything at this point, swirling as the wind swept over the quiet landscape. A crow rose above the treetops, black wings sharp against the snow and sky. Clint leaned against the wall, his free hand tucked into his pocket, his shoulders up. “They might be pissed, too.”

Phil choked on a laugh. “Please. My mother has been dropping not-so-veiled hints about me bringing you home for the holidays since about six minutes after she met you. Christmas is big in the Coulson family, and she's been glaring at me and the proverbial empty seat next to me for years. Before she met you years. Since we started dating years.”

Clint shifted his weight, forward and back, the muscles of his back and shoulders tight. “Doesn't mean she wants me here without you.”

“Clint, my mother does not give a damn that I'm not there. Right now, she is somewhere, chortling over a tray of fresh baked cookies, plotting about just how she's going to turn this to her advantage.”

He realized his fingers were twitching against his leg, his hand flicking there. He sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, shoving his hand through his hair, if for no other reason than to still his fingers. “This isn't going to work out well for me, is it?”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then a faint sigh. “I'm sorry,” Phil said at last. “I shouldn't have- Do you want me to arrange a different-”

“No, it's fine-”

“Because I can tell mom that we've discovered something about your condition, and we don't want to-”

“Phil, it's FINE,” Clint said, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Phil fell silent, and Clint caught himself smiling. “It's fine,” he repeated.

The silence stretched, and in his mind's eye, Clint could see Phil's expression as he weighed that, as he turned it over in his head, testing it for truthfulness. 

“It's fine, why don't you trust me when I say it's fine?” Clint asked, resisting another eye roll. If he got started, he was never going to stop.

“Because sometimes you lie about your own health and well-being,” Phil said. Clint could hear him shuffling papers in the background. “And you know it.”

“Only sometimes,” Clint said, grinning. “Every once in a while.” 

“That does not make me feel better,” Phil said. He paused. “I didn't want you to be in some sterile safe house, Clint. Not right now.”

Clint shrugged. “Seen one sterile safe house, seen a thousand of them,” he said. Cautiously, he sank down onto the edge of the narrow bed, still staring out the window. He could see the colony of crows now, black shadows among the tree tops, dotting the snow covered ground. Glossy black wings flicked, fast as a blink, and the crows lifted off, one after another. “It's fine.”

“It's just that you get a little weird around Christmas, Clint.”

Clint frowned. “Hey, fuck you, I'm great at Christmas.”

“You are, you're-” Phil sighed. “It's just, sometimes, it's like you're trying too hard.”

Clint stilled. His fingers twitched against his leg. “What the hell does that mean?”

Phil sighed. “I didn't-”

His face felt tight, and when Clint swallowed, it hurt. “You know what, actually, I don't want to get into this, really, it's been a pretty fucking lousy couple of days, and now I have to go be the odd man out in your family's holiday celebrations, which I'm sure will be just as great, because you decided to pull this shit on me with no warning, so you know what? Yeah. I am pissed.” His voice climbed with every word, frustration and a sudden, searing anger twisting through him.

“Clint, look-”

“Let me know if there's any change to the situation, until then, I've got a whole lot of nothing to do, so I gotta get on that,” Clint managed, and he cut the connection without saying good-bye. Which was childish, but then again, so was he. Childish enough to mute his phone and throw the damn thing straight at his bag.

He braced a hand on the window frame, watching the crows take off, and trying not to think.

There was a light tap on the door, and he pushed himself away from the wall. “Come in.”

Shirley poked her head into the room. “How are you settling in?” she asked.

Clint gave her a smile that felt wrong on his face. “Fine. Thank you.”

Shirley paused, her shoulder braced against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. “Would you prefer a different room, I know this is a little odd, but-”

“No, it's fine.” Clint shoved his hands in his pockets. It was fine, really. It wasn't like the room was a shrine to Phil or anything. It was just a pleasant, slightly masculine guest room, all heavy wood and dark paint, full of light and warmth.

It was a very nice room to have grown up in. 

Clint shifted his weight, his feet rocking on the wooden floor. “It's just for a couple of days,” he said, his shoulders twitching up in a shrug. “It's not like I'm moving in.”

“The commute to work would be hell,” Shirley agreed. She straightened up with a faint exhale. “Are you hungry, Clint? There's soup and sandwich fixings in the fridge.”

All he'd done this morning was sit in the back of a car and eat doughnuts. The absolute last thing he needed right now was more food. But the walls felt like they were closing in already, the room too familiar and too foreign all at once and he had no idea how he was going to do this.

His phone vibrated, bouncing to the floor, and he gave Shirley a tight smile. “Yeah, actually. I am.” He strode towards the door, letting the weight of his footfalls cover the faint buzz of his phone. “Let's go.”

*

“Exactly how many cookies are you making?” Clint asked, casting a wary eye around the table. There were cookie sheets and cooling racks everywhere, and the fridge was stuffed full of bowls of dough. There were sacks of sugar and flour on the counter, and cartons of eggs on the table. 

“Let's just start making cookies,” Shirley said, serene, “and I'll tell you when you can stop.”

“That's not comforting,” Clint said. “At all.”

“It wasn't meant to be.” Shirley bent over her mixer, tossing in chopped nuts with an easy hand. There was the echo of a car horn from outside, and her head came up. “That'll be Mary Margaret,” she said, dusting her hands off on her apron. “She comes over after school some times, and she was supposed to help me with the decorations for the tree yesterday. So here she is, a day late and a dollar short.” She folded her arms, an amused smile sweeping over her face. “That girl.”

Clint's eyebrows arched. “She isn't driving, is she?”

“She's twelve, Clint,” Shirley said, picking up her mug. 

“That means absolutely nothing.”

“She can't drive.” She paused, her head tipping to the side. “Actually, knowing that child, I bet she can drive. However, for legal reasons, she should not.” She reached for the coffee pot. “She gets a carpool from school, she must've sweet talked Emily's mother into dropping her off here rather than at home. It happens with all the kids, from time to time.”

The front door slammed. “Hi, Gramma!”

“We're back here, honey,” Shirley called back as the oven timer went off. She reached for a mitt. “Don't track up my house with those muddy boots of yours.”

“Like I needed to be told to take off my shoes.” Mary Margaret bounced across the kitchen floor, her hair pulled back from her face with a headband covered in Christmas trees and a pair of oversized earrings shaped like ornaments swinging around her face with each step. “Oh, good, you're here, Uncle Clint,” she said, skidding to a stop just long enough to sneak a cookie from the tray. Shirley swiped at her hand with the spatula, but it was a warning shot. “You can help me thread popcorn.” She stuffed the cookie into her mouth. “Gonna go change,” she said, her mouth full. “This skirt is a pain.”

“Very ladylike,” Shirley said, her lips twitching as she plated cookies. 

“Luckily, I don't wanna be a lady, it's boring. I wanna be like my gramma.” Mary Margaret bounced up on her toes, brushing a powdered sugar kiss against Shirley's cheek.

“Excuse me, I am a lady,” Shirley said, giving her a stern look.

“Ehhhhhhhh,” Mary Margaret said, see-sawing her hand in the air. “Kinda? In the important ways, but not in all the other-”

“You are on thin ice, young miss, and Santa has plenty of time to return every one of your gifts and replace them with a gift certificate that you will not enjoy.”

“That is impossible, I love all gift certificates. They are like money, but with narrow stipulations so I get to be creative.” Mary Margaret draped herself over the counter, grinning. “I like being creative.”

“Are you aware that the local hardware store sells gift certificates?”

“They also sell paint and I've been wanting a bright orange room. But still. You are regal and elegant and the most ladylike lady since Princess Di,” Mary Margaret said, her freckled nose wrinkling as she grinned across the counter at her grandmother. She folded her arms on the counter, leaning forward to look at Shirley over the tops of her glasses. There was some sort of sparkly sticker next to her eye, which Clint hadn't noticed under her frames. “I love you, Gramma.”

“You are a brat,” Shirley said, and smacked at the hand that was sneaking towards the cookie plate. “Don't even.”

Mary Margaret tucked her head on top of her arms and tried a particularly pathetic look. Shirley just arched an eyebrow and pointed at the stairs. “Go,” she said. “There's no time for popcorn garlands today. You have homework.”

“I can do it tonight.”

“You can do it now.”

“Tonight,” Mary Margaret wheedled. “Plenty of time tonight, and I need Uncle Clint to help me with the stupid popcorn garlands.” Shirley stared her down. Mary Margaret gave her a huge grin. “Pleeeeeease?”

Shirley went back to her cookie dough. “Go get changed out of your uniform before you end up ruining it. The way you have the last three.”

“On it!” Mary Margaret shot upright. “Uncle Clint. You. Me. Popcorn.”

Clint flicked her a salute, his face still buried in his coffee cup. “Ready for service, Commander.”

“Excellent!” she crowed, heading for the stairs. Clint gave a low whistle, and when she glanced in his direction, he flicked a cookie in her direction. She snagged it out of mid-air. “Thanks, Uncle Clint!”

“I saw that,” Shirley said, never glancing up from her bowl of dough.

“Yeah, but you're going to ignore it,” Clint said hopefully.

“How optimistic of you, Mr. Barton.” She dropped the bowl in front of him with a thud, and stabbed a spoon into the depths. “Make yourself useful.”

He considered the massive bowl of dough. “How much of this can I eat?”

“None until its baked.”

“That seems unreasonable.” Still, he dug the spoon into the dough and started dropping it onto the parchment paper covered baking sheets. When Shirley turned to put the first tray in the oven, Clint shoved the spoon in his mouth.

Another spoon landed in the dough in front of him. “Don't put that back in the cookies.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie dough. He swallowed. “Really, we're making popcorn garlands?”

“No, we are not.” Shirley smiled at him. “You and Mary Margaret are. We're getting the Christmas tree tomorrow, and we always put up popcorn garland. Would you like some cocoa?”

“Does it have alcohol in it?”

“It can.” She braced one hand on the counter and the other on her hip. “If you really think you can keep up with a hyperactive twelve year old with booze in your system. I would not suggest you try that.”

Clint nodded. “Point taken, ma'am.” He went back to the cookies. “Question. Did she know I was going to be here?”

“No, she did not.” Shirley opened a cabinet, reaching for a tin canister on an upper shelf. “But she's not thrown by much.” The kettle was set on the stove with a solid clunk. “She might look like her mother, but she's as unflappable as her uncle Phil.”

Shirley pulled a chair away from the table, and settled down next to Clint. “Push that over here,” she said. “We've got a few minutes before we need to start the popcorn.”

“How much popcorn are we talking about here?” Clint asked. “I think I deserve a little warning.”

“Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“There are some things that you're better off not being warned about,” she said, smiling. 

“I changed my mind about the booze.”

“It's in the cabinet to the left of the fridge.”

*

“So, how long are you going to ignore Phil's calls?”

“Forever,” Clint said, his phone tucked between his cheek and his shoulder. He squinted down at the needle, his tongue sticking out from between his lips as he tried to aim the thread at the hole.

“I'm giving you twelve hours.”

“Fuck you, Nat.”

She chuckled, low and amused, and Clint stabbed himself in the finger. He bit out a curse, and she laughed again. “Really, Barton?” she said, amusement running through her words. 

“I'm not talking to him,” he mumbled around the finger he'd shoved in his mouth. He fumbled the needle around and managed to stab himself in the thumb. “I'm pissed at him.”

“I got that.”

"What if it was important?"

Clint's eyes rolled upwards. "If it was important, he'd call the Avengers' line, and that rings through even if my phone is off, let alone if it's on ignore," he said. "And he'd do it from a priority SHIELD number. He's using his personal phone to call my personal numer so that I can ignore him." In the silence that followed that, he gave diasterous pile of popcorn and thread on his knee a tight smile. "Which means he's letting me be pissed."

Nat made a slight humming noise under her breath. "Sometimes," she said, "you're smarter than you look, Clint."

"Well, it would be hard to be dumber than I look," he said, a real grin splitting his face.

"It would," she said, and she was struggling against a laugh, he could hear it in her voice. He relaxed back against the pillows, his eyes closing. "How long are you planning on being pissed?"

"When can I come back to New York?" he shot back, his voice lazy.

"When fewer people want to kill you."

He scoffed. "Nat, that's... That's a constant. People always want to kill me. You want to kill me. If I have to wait until people don't want to kill me-"

"Fewer, Barton. I'm not saying none, I'm saying fewer." He heard her shift, boot soles soft on metal flooring. "Also, it's rare that I want to kill you. Only on very rare occasions do you annoy me to the point where I get the urge to put you out of my misery."

"Is now one of these times?"

"We're getting there." But he could hear the smile in her voice. "How long are you going to be ignoring Phil's calls, Clint?" 

"Forever," he repeated, in a high, drawn out sing-song. He gave up before he ended up bleeding on the popcorn strings, shifting the whole mess into the bowl next to him on the couch. "Do I try to hard?” he asked her without any buildup.

“All the time,” she said.

“Thanks,” he gritted out.

“It's part of your charm, Clint. You don't do things by half measure, even if you're trying to do them by half measure. You try far too hard at everything, and it's exhausting, but it's you,” she said, blunt about it. “Why do you think I keep you around?”

“I always figured it was because of my skills at oral sex,” he said, about an instant before his brain reminded him where he was. He turned in his seat, half expecting to find Phil's mom right there, but the evening was quiet and the first floor was still. He turned back to the fireplace, relief flooding him.

“That was a selling point when we were dating,” she agreed. “Afterwards, not so much.”

“I figured I was an emergency back up plan.”

“Usually, but not in this instance. Talk to Phil.”

“Go to Hell.”

“Seriously, I give you like ten hours before you let this go and talk to him. Just put do it now. He's getting on everyone's nerves, and while it's funny when he bitches Stark out, Hill's going to have him shipped to Antartica for the foreseeable future.”

“Never talking to him again.”

“Glad we had this chat. You're getting coal for Christmas.”

He considered that. “Better than expected.”

“Your expectations are pathetically low, Barton.”

“Yeah, and still occasionally disappointed.”

There was a beat of silence. “I need you to stay safe until we can come get you,” she said at last. “And Barton? We will come and get you.”

He smiled, lopsided and uneven. “That's what you say now.”

“When have I ever left you behind?”

He let out a chuckle. “I know.” He paused. “Thanks, Nat. I love you.”

“I know.” 

The line was dead, and he stared at his phone. “My own personal Han Solo,” he said, and pulled up his web browser. Maybe he'd better get on that Christmas shopping thing.

*

He'd lived in the city for so long that he'd forgotten the stillness of a winter night.

New York was never quiet, never still. In the midst of a blizzard or in the earliest morning, there was still life to New York, still activity, still noise. There was never a moment when the lights went out and the world went dark and the stars spread out across the sky. There was never a moment of silence so all encompassing that it was like he was alone in the world.

Here, he could believe it. Here, just at the edge of the old stone wall, just before the edge of the forest, where even the pale moonlight was swallowed by the shadows of the old evergreen trees, where the snow had been driven by the wind, Clint could believe that he was alone.

He'd been walking for what seemed like hours now, long enough to watch the waxing moon rise through the sky. He took a deep breath, through his mouth, and felt the cold air sear his throat. It hurt, it ached, and his lungs burned with a need to cough. Instead, he let his head fell back, and breathed in again, his lips cold, the skin of his face and throat tight, exposed to the icy cold.

The night air was so cold, so clear, that he could almost hear his own breathing echo in the darkness. If he was still, if he didn't disturb the snow around his feet, he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, hear the hiss of breath between his teeth.

It was cold, and still, and silent, and Clint savored the emptiness for another moment. He closed his eyes, blanking out the moonlight and the stars, what little he could see. He breathed, and he could feel the momentary warmth of it against his face as he exhaled. His feet were numb now, in the heavy boots and the thick socks, and his legs ached from the effort it took to walk through the heavy snow.

But when he opened his eyes again, he moved on, walking through the snow. Leaving a trail of footprints behind him, he continued on.

 

*Four Days Before Christmas*

 

“Your mother bought me pajamas.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Are we not fighting anymore?” Phil asked at last, his voice cautious.

“Do you want to be fighting?” Clint asked.

“No.”

“Then maybe you should shut up and accept my sudden change of heart, okay?”

Another long silence, as Phil turned that over, looking for meaning in the meaningless. “Okay,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“I know, I'm fine, drop it,” Clint said, because, okay, he was still a little pissed. But he preferred being pissed and talking to Phil to being pissed and not talking to Phil. He changed the subject with brutal efficiency. “Your mother bought me pajamas.”

“That was nice of her.”

Clint stared up at the ceiling. “Phil.”

“Clint?” Phil sounded amused in that way that only Phil managed, when he was doing paperwork or something else important and Clint was being annoying. It was a tone that Clint knew well. He liked it more than he probably should.

Clint turned his attention back to the folded pair of flannel pajamas. “Phil, why would your mother buy me pajamas?”

“So you could sleep in them?”

“I sleep in my shorts.”

“As much as I do enjoy you wandering around the place in boxers with holes in inappropriate places, Mom probably wanted to avoid that.”

“Hey, not all my shorts have holes in them.”

“Do the one you're currently wearing have-”

“Let's just move on,” Clint said, cutting him off. “I have, like sweatpants an' shit to wear around other people, I'm not going to walk around the house in my underwear.”

“Considerate of you.”

“Shut up,” Clint said, grinning. “So why did she-”

“Because it's a Coulson family tradition,” Phil said. “Everyone wears pajamas to open their gifts on Christmas morning.”

Clint leaned back against the wall. “Everyone.”

“Everyone. You want to put a foot over the threshold on Christmas morning, better bring your pjs.” Clint could hear the smile in Phil's voice. “It helps that most of the family spends the night. The adults have the spare bedrooms, and the kids sleep up in the attic. There's a play room up there, with a great big window. We always used to spend Christmas Eve night up there watching for Santa.”

“That sounds nice,” Clint said. He sipped his coffee. “Now the kids do?”

“Now the kids do,” Phil agreed. “Tradition.”

Clint nodded, then aloud he said, “Can I wear different pajamas?”

“How bad are they?”

“They're, uh, it's like a tuxedo t-shirt? Like that. Except pajamas. Fake tuxedo pajamas.” He paused. “They're pretty bad.”

“Ouch. No, I'm sorry, but you're stuck with them unless you want to hurt mom's feelings.”

“What did I ever do to your mother?” Clint asked. “That I deserve this?”

“You're sleeping with her son, it's a scandal,” Phil said, utterly deadpan about it.

“Listen, sir, I don't know why your mother would blame me for that. You seduced me,” Clint said, grinning into his cup. “And your mother has to know what a playboy her only son is.”

Phil choked on his coffee, coughing, and Clint waiting, pleased with himself as Phil got himself back under control. “I'm curious as to what hallucination you're basing this on,” Phil said at last, his voice raspy.

Clint shrugged, still grinning. “Our entire relationship.”

“That only feels like a hallucination,” Phil told him. When Clint finally stopped laughing, he said, “Are you all right?”

“I'm having fantasies of seducing the teenage version of you,” Clint said. “I blame the room.”

“Teenage me would've had his pants off before you finished making the request,” Phil said. 

“Aw, did you have a lot of sex, Teen-Phil?”

That won him a snort. “I was an angry, closeted gay kid with bad hair and two nosy younger sisters. I did not have sex at all. But I seem to be particularly susceptible to you, Barton.”

“Fine, blame me,” Clint said, his eyes closing. “How are things going?”

“Nothing new to report, sorry.”

Clint took a deep breath. “Just tell me something, anything, Phil. Just-” He swallowed. “Tell me what's going on.”

He didn't pause this time, he didn't question it, he just started to talk. And Clint flopped out on the bed and listened, wondering if this was what being homesick was like.

*

"I can just stay here," Clint offered. No one listened to him.

"Maybe a pair of glasses," Shirley mused, her index finger pressed against pursed lips.

"Uh, actually, since I wear glasses as part of my uniform, I get recognized more with them on than off," Clint said, tucking his hands in his pockets. "I pretty much avoid it, if I'm going out."

"Sunglasses, perhaps," she said.

"Oh, you know what?" Jason asked, smiling. "I still have those glasses that Pam gave me."

"Gave you?" Shirley asked, eyebrows arching.

Jason ignored her. "Little brat replaced my reading glasses with ones with no prescription," he explained to Clint. He crossed the kitchen, yanking open a drawer and digging through the contents. "Pretty good prank, actually."

"Took him a week to figure out that they weren't his glasses," Shirley said, a faint smile hovering at the corners of her mouth. "Observant, he isn't."

"Don't know what you're grousing about," Jason said, coming up with a black glasses case. He handed it to his wife. "You'd been griping at me to get an eye appointment for months."

"And you only did it after squinting through plain plastic lenses for a solid week," she said. She flipped the case open and pulled out a pair of heavy horn rimmed glasses. "Here we go."

She slipped them onto Clint's nose. He blinked at them. Shirley's head tipped to the side. "Not your best look, dear," she said.

"You'd look better in a slim wire frame, I think," Jason mused.

"I don't actually need glasses," Clint pointed out. "So not worried about it."

"Needs a little something," Shirley mused. She snapped her fingers. "The hat that I told you never to wear again."

"You threw that out."

"I tried to throw that out, I'm well aware that you rescued it from the trash and it's currently hidden in the back of the woodshed."

"It gets cold out there, chopping wood," Jason pointed out. "And what you don't see doesn't hurt you."

"That hat causes me pain, just by existing."

"I don't want this hat," Clint said. No one listened to him. He was getting used to it. It was comforting in a way that he didn't really want to examine. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his coat. "I can just stay here," he repeated.

"It's a Christmas tree lot," Shirley said. "Poorly lit, and the kids will be more interested in the trees and the parents will be more interested in keeping tabs on their children. No one's going to look twice at you."

She patted him lightly on the arm. "Besides, the boys are expecting to see you there. You wouldn't want to disappoint them, would you?"

"Also, I'm too old to be luggin' a damn tree around, so you're very necessary here." Jason gave them a pleased smile. He clapped Clint on the back. “Let's go find you a hat.”

“How bad is this hat?” Clint asked, trailing behind him.

“Horrible,” Shirley called after them.

“It's nice and warm, and no one's gonna mistake you for a deer,” Jason said cheerfully.

“Are random hunters mistaking people for deer in a Christmas tree lot a big problem around here?” Clint asked. He wasn't sure he wanted an answer to that question. 

“No, but we Coulsons like to be prepared.” Jason shuffled his way down the walk, heading for the woodshed behind the house. The path wasn't icy at this point, but neither of them rushed it. “Shirley's just being fussy, it's a perfectly good hat.”

“I'm getting that,” Clint said. He tucked his hands in his pocket, letting out a breath into the cool evening air. 

“Didja get enough to eat for dinner?” Jason asked.

“Yeah,” Clint said, a faint smile on his face. “By the time I go home, they're going to have to roll me out of here.”

Jason patted his own well padded belly. “It happens,” he said, unconcerned. “Nice of you to put up with it, though.” He grinned. “We like feeding people around here, it's hard to resist.”

“I noticed.” Clint paused as Jason wrestled the door of the shed open. “How many cookies are there going to be in that house?”

“You haven't seen anything yet,” Jason said. He flicked on the light. “Now, where did I put that hat... I kept it out here for when I was chopping wood,” he explained. “Need to get a few logs for the fire tonight, it's gonna be a cold one.”

“I can get them,” Clint said.

“That's nice of you.” Jason straightened up. “Here we go!”

Clint caught a glimpse of the hat, a horrific orange and red plaid chunk of fabric with massive, fuzzy earflaps, before it landed on his head. A glimpse was enough. The hat settled low on his forehead, the earflaps dangling on either side of his face. “Thanks,” he managed.

“You can tie the ears under your chin,” Jason pointed out. “There's a cord there, if you want.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Jason patted him on the shoulder. “Trust me, son. No one's gonna be lookin' at your face.”

“True,” Clint said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. “Let's go, then.”

*

“This one.”

Clint looked up. “Guys. This tree is like, fifteen feet high. As big as your grandparents' living room is, I don't think that this is going to fit. In fact, I know that this isn't going to fit at all, we'd have to cut this tree in half to make it fit.”

He glanced at the twins. They were staring up at the tree with identical expressions of wide eyed joy, their mouths hanging open, their round cheeks pink with the cold. Clint tucked his hands in his pockets, trying not to smile.

“It's not happening, guys. C'mon, let's find one that's a little less Rockefeller Center, okay?” He glanced around, looking for the rest of the Coulsons. Even this close to the holiday, there were plenty of trees left, and plenty of people milling through the aisles, checking out the trees and sipping free cups of hot mulled cider. Christmas carols were playing on the overhead speakers. 

Bradley let out a heavy sigh. Sam repeated it. But they both turned away, with only one or two backward, longing glances. Bradley reached for Clint's hand without looking up, and Clint fumbled his hand back out of his pocket to take it. “Do you go skating at Rockefeller Center?” he asked Clint, his mitten covered hand warm against Clint's palm. “We saw people skating, the last time they showed it on TV. I asked mom if we could go skating, and she said yes, but not in New York.” His freckled nose wrinkled up. “It looks more fun in New York.”

“Not really a 'skating' kind of guy,” Clint said, steering them towards a row of distinctly shorter trees. He wasn't sure where everyone had gone, but he figured that he could keep things under control for five minutes or so. He snagged Sam by the hood of his coat when the boy tried to dart down a row of trees that looked about twelve feet tall. “Still too big, good try though.”

Sam groaned, loud and long, and a woman passing in the other direction, a baby in her arms, gave Clint a sympathetic smile. Bradley leaned away, still gripping Clint's hand, his body tipped to the side. “Do you see the Rockettes?”

“We saw the Rockettes once,” Sam said. He stepped to the side to kick at a snowbank, working his toe into the snow. “It was cool.”

“Nope, sorry,” Clint said, waiting while Sam kicked a chunk of snow loose, then stomped on it. 

“How 'bout the Nutcracker?” Bradley asked, his eyes narrowed now. “Or the widows at the stores? Or shopping or the museums?”

“That'd be no.” Clint found a row of trees that seemed to be about the right size, and headed down it, determined now. 

“You waste living in New York,” Sam said.

“I really do,” Clint agreed, grinning. 

“That's really rude,” Mary Margaret said, coming up behind them. “Oh, my God, Sam, you can't just say things like that.”

“Why not?” Sam asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “It's true.”

“It is true,” Clint said. “What about this one?” he asked Bradley.

Bradley's nose scrunched up as Clint pulled the tree away from the wooden frame where it was leaning. “It's more fat than tall,” he said.

“I don't care if it's true,” Mary Margaret said, “it's rude. And it's not true.” To Bradley, she said, “You want fat, not tall. The bigger it is around, the more presents fit underneath.”

“I don't think that works that way,” Clint said.

“With Grandpa, it totally works that way,” Mary Margaret said, grinning at him. Her glasses were crooked on her nose, and her earrings were huge enamel candy canes, and she was wearing what appeared to be three different scarves. “He just keeps saying how EMPTY it looks under the tree and then he gets more presents. Grandma tells him not to, but he slips extra ones under there when she's not looking.”

“So you get them the fattest tree you can find?”

“Yes. I've been telling my brothers this for years, but they still go for tall.” Mary Margaret crossed her arms over her chest. “Tall equals pretty, fat equals presents.”

“Okay, that's both sneaky and greedy,” Clint told her.

“Well, yes,” Mary Margaret said, blinking owlishly behind her glasses. “Duh.”

“What do you want for Christmas?” Bradley asked Clint, catching him off guard.

“I don't need anything,” Clint said, making a grab for the tree that Sam was wrestling with before the entire row could end up on the ground. He shoved it back into place. “Still too tall, Sam.” Sam made a face. “I know, life sucks, let's try over here.”

“Christmas isn't about what you need,” Bradley said. “It's nice to give people things they actually want.” He blinked up at Clint, his stocking hat sliding sideways over one eye. “Right?”

“Then I don't want anything,” Clint said. “Where are your parents?” he asked Mary Margaret.

“Mom's taking a phone call, and Dad's talking to the nursery owner about his dog. If you don't tell people what you want, you're still going to get presents,” she said. “And they're going to be terrible.”

“I'll take my chances,” Clint said. “Where are your grandparents?”

Mary Margaret shrugged. “Dunno,” she said. “Where's Sam?”

Clint's head snapped around. “Sam?” he called.

“I found it!” the voice came back, high and piping through the cold night air. 

“Over here,” Mary Margaret said, stomping off down the row, her glittery pink boots shining with each step. Clint, still holding Bradley's hand, followed behind, all the way to the end of the row and down another, to an area half hidden behind a shed. A handful of trees were there, with visible damage or 'SOLD' tags on them, but Sam was standing by a single tree that had been left beside the fence.

It was too big, and too fat, but it was beautiful, with a heavy base and a good shape, solid branches and thick green needles dusted with snow. Clint reached out, rubbing the needles between his thumb and forefinger. They stayed put, a sign of a healthy tree that would last. It still had a price tag on it, and no sign that it had been claimed by anyone else. He looked at Bradley, who nodded. 

“It's perfect,” Mary Margaret said. “Good job, Sam!” Sam grinned up at her, and Clint wondered what had happened to his hat. The boy's hair was sticking up now, in damp spikes around his head.

“We should ask your grandparents,” Clint said.

“Oooooor,” Mary Margaret said, “we can take advantage of the fact that you are a guest and we can't possibly say no to you, that would be rude.” Both of the twins turned to Clint, identical looks of naked longing on their faces and Clint decided that he didn't need this.

“Let's get it paid for and wrapped up before any adults catch onto what we're doing,” he said, heading for the main farm building.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late. But at least it is done. 8)
> 
> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, peace, joy, and love to all who don't, and a happy new year to all.
> 
> May this one be better than the last, for every one of you, and thank you for another year of support and kindness.

*Three Days Before Christmas*

“Why am I awake?” Clint asked. He wasn't sure he was. His eyes were closed. He might've still be asleep. That was a pleasant thought. He fumbled for his coffee cup. He could smell that, so he was pretty sure it was there.

“Because it is cookie day, Mr. Barton.” 

There was a click of porcelain on wood, and Clint pried one eye open. The plate in front of him had a generous portion of hash, steaming and fragrant with onion and well-trimmed chunks of roast. He let out a happy little whimper, and reached for his fork.

Jason finished his coffee. “Well, I'm off, I've got elf duty today,” he said, pushing himself up. He kissed Shirley on the cheek. “What time are we decorating the tree tonight?”

“The girls took the day off of work, so they should be over soon,” Shirley said. “And Mary Margaret and the boys will be over after school.” She smiled. “Dinner is soup and fresh bread and all the cookies you can eat.”

“I'll skip lunch.” He patted Clint on the shoulder and ambled out of the kitchen.

Clint swallowed and reached for his cup of coffee. “Elf duty?” he asked, before taking a sip.

“Community center downtown,” Shirley said, muscling a mixer onto the counter. There was a second one already there. “They're assiting with the Toys for Tots distribution, and the gift baskets for local families that need a helping hand.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “There's the food bank, and the church's gift tree, and the boys try to make sure that if anything didn't get bought or delivered, they can do that now, before they're out of time. They also make things, little wooden crafts and furniture, some toys, just blocks and lincoln logs and the sort. Some they give away, some they sell to raise money.”

She smiled at Clint. “He's retired,it keeps him out of trouble.”

He looked with trepidation at the mixers. “Didn't you spend yesterday making cookies?”

“Those were just preliminary cookies,” she said. “Mostly dough that needed to be refrigerated overnight. Today is cookie day.”

He nodded, because she seemed to be expecting a reply. “We're... Making cookies?”

“That is correct, Mr. Barton.” She opened the pantry door. “Now, let's find you an apron.”

*

"Hey, Mom. Hey, Phil." A vaguely female form wandered through the kitchen door, bundled in a massive puffy coat in a glaring shade of pink with a matching hat. She had a disposible cup of coffee in one hand and about three scarves wrapped around her neck and the lower part of her face. Without stopping, she clomped through the kitchen, heading for the front hall. Clint wondered how she was drinking the coffee, but it seemed safer not to ask.

"Mornin'," he said, dumping about six sticks of butter into the mixer.

"Morning, dear," Shirley said. To Clint, she added, "Observant, isn't she?"

"She might not have gotten the laserlike focus I expect from the Coulson family," Clint agreed. He paused. "That was Pam, right?"

"I'm fairly certain, dear."

Pam backed back into the kitchen, her head tipped forward as she squinted through the gap between her scarves and hat. "You're not Phil."

"I cannot believe you're my daughter," Shirley said. "Honestly, honey."

"Cut me some slack. It's early, I've only had one cup off coffee." Pam started unravelling her cold weather gear. "Phil still asleep?"

"Phil couldn't make it," Shirley said, unruffled. "Clint is laying low with us for a while, there was an incident.” She made finger quotes around the word, and Pam just nodded. Sometimes, Clint got the urge to ask these people what their lives were like, but he always decided it wasn't worth the trauma.

"Okay, so, this holiday season, the part of my brother will be played by Clint Barton, who looks much better in a frilly red and green apron," Pam agreed. She tugged her hat off, and her dark hair exploded in a cloud of frizz around her shoulders.

“Don't flirt with your brother's beau,” Shirley said. “It's rude, and shows a poor upbringing. Go hang your things up, and for heaven's sake, take off your boots! I don't need to mop again.”

“Geez, I just walked in, give me a second,” Pam said, yawning. “Is there coffee?”

“You're carrying coffee.”

Pam pulled a face, her eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. “Is there any MORE coffee?” she asked, her voice taking on an edge.

“Boots first,” Shirley said. She pointed, and Pam went.

She returned a few minutes later, making a beeline for the coffee pot just as Shirley slid two more trays of cookies into the oven and set the timer. “All right,” she said, dusting her hands off on a tea towel. “I'm going to get the rest of the supplies.”

Clint stood up. “Want me to-” he started, but she waved him off.

“Easier to do it myself than explain it to you,” she said, heading for the basement door. “Do me a favor and wrap up that batch of dough, it needs to be refrigerated before we can do anything with it.”

“Okay.” Clint grabbed the bowl from the mixer and carried it to the table, where Pam and a box of wax paper waited. Pam stared at him, her eyes narrowed, her arms folded on the table top, her shoulders hunched. Clint arched his eyebrows. "What?" he asked, reaching for his coffee.

"Do not get how my dork of a brother keeps picking up hot guys," she said, her mouth pursing up tight. "It seems wrong somehow. Cosmically speaking. There's some sort of imbalance in the great cosmic plan."

"Because your brother has a dating history?" Clint asked.

"Because my brother has a hot dating history."

Clint considered that, even as he dumped the cookie dough onto the wax paper. "I'm flattered for me, insulted for him," he said.

"Aw, that's cute." She grinned. "You can be insulted. Or you can pump me for information."

"I can't do both?" he asked, folding the paper around a lump of dough. He slapped the paper in place and folded it over.

"Morals or info, mutually exclusive here."

"We all know which way I'm going on that." He put the dough in the fridge and wiped his hands on his apron. "You planning on helping?"

She gave him a sad look over the top of her coffee cup. "I can't stir it. The dough is too stiff." She pushed the bowl at him with one finger, letting it scrape across the well worn wood of the kitchen table. "You should do it."

"So you took the day off from work to sit in my kitchen and drink my coffee?" Shirley said, walking through with a laundry basket full of assorted ingrediants. 

"Also eat your cookies. And admire Clint's arms as he stirs," Pam said, pulling her coffee out of the way right before the basket hit the table in front of her. "Aw, mom, you shouldn't have."

"Start unwrapping Hershey's Kisses, you lazy child." Shirley smacked her lightly on the head, and Pam laughed. “You're buying lunch.” 

“Awesome, but if I'm paying, we're ordering from Great Wall, not Golden House,” Pam said, pulling bags of chocolate kisses from the basket. Bags of nuts and chocolate chips, a jar of peanut butter and bars of baking chocolate ended up on the table, and she pushed them out of the way. 

“Fine, you're the one who complains that their hot and sour soup is subpar,” Shirley pointed out. She glanced around. “Eggs. I'm going to get the eggs from the fridge downstairs, I'll be right back.”

Pam made a face at her mother's retreating back. “Clint, is Phil still eating his Chinese food super spicy?”

“He's pretty much still eating his whatever super spicy. I swear he's got asbestos coating on his throat,” Clint said. 

She grinned. “I think he burned his tastebuds off years ago.”

“Also possible.” Clint picked up the bowl. It weighed far more than he'd expected it to. He jammed the wooden spoon into the dough and frowned down at it. “Why don't we just put this in the mixer?”

“Because last year, it broke the mixer,” Pam said, popping a chocolate into her mouth. “It's like sugar filled cement.”

“Gotcha,” Clint said. He rolled up his sleeves, his jaw tight as he reached for the bowl. “Let's do this.” To Pam, he said, “How's the website business?”

She grinned. “Anything that causes my brother a headache is totally worth my time.” She reached into the bowl, snagging a bit of dough. “How's the super hero business?”

“Doesn't pay as well as you might expect.” Gritting his teeth, Clint held onto the bowl with one hand and forced the wooden spoon through the dough with the other. “Okay, you weren't kidding about-” There was a snap.

“How're we doing?” Shirley asked.

Clint held up the handle of the spoon. “Your cookies broke my spoon,” he said. He fished the broken end of it out of the dough. “You weren't kidding,” he said to Pam.

“That spoon had it coming.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a metal one. “Here. And Pam? Get the spritz cookies.”

“Clint can do those,” Pam said immediately. 

Shirley braced a hand on the counter. “Clint,” she said, with a voice filled with doom, “is not yet part of this family via blood, marriage, or adoption.” She leaned in. “He can still get away. He can still be driven way. By the spritz press.” Her eyebrows arched. “Do you want to explain that to Phil?”

“Might prefer that to working the spritz press,” Pam muttered.

“Hello!” The cheerful voice echoed through the house. “Hello! Sorry I'm late! Mary Margaret decided to fight me on going to school today, and I had to call the office, dear God, I can't take a day off without everything falling apart, I do not understand this.”

“Jessica can do it,” Pam said, her eyes wide.

Shirley looked at Clint. He put his finger to the tip of his nose. “Not it,” he said. “Don't know what 'it' is. But not it.”

“You fit in a little too well around here, Barton.” Raising her voice, Shirley said, “Come on in, Jessica. We have a job for you.”

*

“We don't have enough ornaments to cover this tree,” Shirley said. She was looking directly at Clint when she said it.

He shrugged. “I think it's a really nice tree,” he said. She didn't seem impressed by his logic. He shrugged. “I can make more popcorn garlands?”

“No, we can't,” Mary Margaret said quickly, around the candy cane in her mouth. “We really can not. Let's not start something we can't finish.

“Brat,” Shirley told her. “And let's not pretend that you didn't have a hand in this.”

“It's Sam and Bradley's fault,” Mary Margaret said without missing a beat. 

“We can fold paper stars,” Sam said. “And I got more candy canes from school, we can use those.”

“Tinsel covers a lot of sins,” Clint said. Shirley gave him a look. “Well, it does.”

She held out a box of blown glass ornaments. “Get to work, mister.”

“We could always hang the burnt cookies as ornaments,” Pam pointed out, walking past with an arm load of ribbons. “We got enough of 'em.”

“And whose fault is that?” Jessica asked. She was sitting on the floor, helping Jason untangle the strings of lights. “Didn't we bundle these up properly when we took them down last year?”

“Gremlins got into the attic again,” Jason said, unconcerned. “Here, Mary Margaret, plug this one in. Let's see if it actually lights up.”

“Gotcha.” Mary Margaret took it from him. “Sam, Bradley, don't you have something to give to Uncle Clint?”

“Not yet,” Sam hissed at her. “We're not THERE yet.”

“Well, when do you think we're going to be THERE?” she asked. 

Bradley hung a knit reindeer. “When we do the mantel,” he said. 

“I think we need to hang something above the midpoint of the tree,” Clint said. “C'mere, Bradley.” He handed the box of ornaments to Sam and boosted Bradley onto his shoulders. He took the box back and held it up, within Bradley's reach. “How's that?”

“We have a step ladder, you know,” Pam pointed out.

“This works,” Clint said, as Bradley's fingers got a grip on his hair. 

“I wanna do the tinsel,” Sam said.

“Dream on, brat, you're too short,” Mary Margaret said.

“Why are we doing ornaments before the lights?” Jessica asked.

Clint closed his eyes and tried not to laugh. “This is chaos,” he told Bradley.

“Yep,” Bradley said. He chose a spun glass icicle from the box. “I like it. It's nice.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Sam, get it,” Bradley called.

“Not yet!” Sam said, digging in a pile of fake greenery garlands. “I wanna do the candles first!”

“Sam,” his mother and grandmother said together, and Sam let out a loud sigh.

“Fine!” he said, stomping for the front hall.

“Put me down,” Bradley said, and Clint let him slide back down to the floor. Sam came back, red and white fabric in his hand. “You didn't have a stocking,” Bradley said. “So we made you one.”

Sam held it up, and Clint took it from him. It was a red stocking, with white 'fur' trim at the top and 'CLINT' written in purple glitter glue along the front. The lettering was uneven and crooked, and the N had a distinct drip on the bottom. The boys stared up at him with identical expressions of happiness, and Clint cleared his throat.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice a little uneven.

“You need a stocking,” Sam explained. “You get candy, and books and life savers, and an-”

“Orange in the toe,” Bradley finished, grinning. “Sometimes, you get markers or pencils or stickers.”

“I get lip gloss,” Mary Margaret said. “If you get any of that, I'll trade you. Especially if it's got glitter in it.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Clint said. “Thanks, guys,” he said, grinning down at the boys, who grinned back.

“Well, go hang it on the mantel,” Jason said, without looking up from the pile of lights. “Sam, find Uncle Phil's stocking, you can hang 'em both.”

“Sounds good,” Clint said, and it did.

*Two Days Before Christmas*

“Why are we in a mall two days before Christmas?” Clint asked.

“Well, because not even I'm crazy enough to go shopping on Christmas Eve,” Jason said. He was pushing a cart through the department store, seemingly unconcerned by the chaos around them. People were everywhere, kids running around and adults clutching slips of paper and smart phones with stress on their faces. In comparison, Jason just kept moving forward, his cart moving easily through the aisles. 

Clint stuck right on his heels, his shoulders hunched beneath his coat. “Okay, but why am I here?” he asked. They passed a display of holiday candy, and he grabbed a bag of red and green foil wrapped chocolates. And some more tinsel from the display behind that. They had come up a bit short. 

“Because Shirley said she'd be damned if she was going shopping two days before Christmas, but she also didn't trust me to go shopping and not come home with, I don't know, a basket of puppies, so you've been assigned to be my babysitter,” Jason said cheerfully. A woman went past them, her arms piled high with yapping robot dogs. “Those could work,” Jason said, watching her go.

“I think she bought them all,” Clint said. “We're gonna have to settle for the kind that doesn't require batteries.”

“Those are good, too.” Jason gave him a look. “'Sides, thought I heard something about you needing a few gifts, yourself.”

“Maybe,” Clint admitted. “Also some ideas.”

Jason chuckled. “Well, nothing like shopping two days before the big day to put the fear of God in a man. We'll figure something out. We're pretty easy to please, most like. We'll grab the kids some toys that require batteries, assembly, and make loud noises, 'cause they deserve the best and their parents deserve punishment.” 

“Gotcha,” Clint said. He glanced down an aisle. No help there, mostly laundry detergent. He was pretty sure that no body wanted a box of fabric softener sheets for Christmas. “How 'bout you?”

“Don't worry about it, kiddo, you got roped into this, no one expects anything.” He smiled. “Well, the kids expect things, but they always have expectations. Lucky for us, they're easily distracted.” He ducked around a corner. “For the rest of the family, there's the 'gift department,'” he said. “The last refuge of the damned.”

Clint looked around. “Stuffed animals, Christmas novelties, and gloves.”

Jason paused, lifting a giant tin off of the shelf. “Chalky popcorn?” After a moment of contemplation, he put it in the cart. “Hell with it, I like the stuff.”

Clint nodded, a sharp dip of his chin. “Everyone's getting Chia Pets.”

Jason rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Well, I don't tend to argue with a man with a plan, but... Why?” he asked, his eyes dancing with laughter.

Clint grabbed a box from the shelf and tossed it into the cart. “Because I want to see the look on Tony's face when he opens it up and finds himself staring at-” He grabbed another box and held it up, gesturing to it with his other hand. “Chia Hippo.” He looked at it. “It's a Chia Hippo.”

“That is what the box says,” Jason agreed.

“It's a pottery hippo that you smear seeds on and then soak with water. Until it starts getting moldy.” Clint stared at it, his hands cradling the box between his hands. “It... It's like the Holy Grail of bad gifts.”

“Y' know,” Jason said, peering over the tops of his glasses at the shelf, “I always kinda wanted one of these things.”

“Yeah?” Clint asked.

“The commercials are very convincing,” Jason said. He held up a couple of boxes. “Chia Zombie or Chia Mickey Mouse?”

“Both,” Clint said, decisively. “All. Toss 'em in. Let's go. Chia Kitten, Chia Ninja Turtles, Chia-” He froze. “Holy shit.”

Jason looked over. “What?”

Clint reached for it, half convinced it was a mirage. That his brain had finally snapped after the thirtieth rendition of “Rudolf,” or that he was still on a sugar high from eating his weight in cookies. But his fingers closed on the cardboard, and the box was real, slick and solid beneath his fingers. He pulled it down, holding it lightly between his hands, like some sacred relic.

“Chia Thor,” he said, his voice hushed.

“Well, don't that beat all,” Jason said. “Look at that.”

Clint could feel a semi-hysterical bubble of laughter pressing on his throat. “It's a Chia Thor,” he said. “You grow a Chia Beard on Chia Thor.” 

Jason was looking up again. “There's a Captain America one, too!” he said. “Aw, Phil woulda loved that when he was a kid.”

“Who are you kidding?” Clint asked, and he was tossing boxes into the cart now, one after another. “Phil would like that NOW. Give it to me.”

Jason handed it over. “It doesn't bother you?” he asked, laughing.

“What, Phil's fanboy crush on Captain America?” Clint shrugged. “Nah. Not going to lie. It used to make me crazy, but then Steve happened. It's easy to hate the idea of Captain America, but it's really hard to hate the man.” He tossed another one in the cart, because THAT, Tony would crow over. He gave Jason a grin. “Besides, it's not like they make a Hawkeye Chia.”

“He'd prefer that, you know,” Jason said. “And they might not make a Hawkeye Chia, but they make those silly little bobble head toys, don't they? Couple of rows over in the toy section.”

Clint glanced at him. “He would not prefer that,” he said. 

Jason paused, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Damn straight he would. If you gave it to him.”

“He doesn't own any of the Hawkeye stuff,” Clint pointed out. “I mean, not even the stupid t-shirts and shit like that.”

“My boy's a collector,” Jason said. “Always has been. There's a couple of reasons someone who's a collector at heart doesn't collect.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, no time, space, or money. All fine reasons not to acquire a collection. Two, because you're ashamed of the thing you love.” He stopped, gave Clint a sideways look. “In that everyone who knew Phil for more than a few months was aware of his Captain America trading cards...”

“Shame isn't really there,” Clint agreed. He grinned. “Near mint condition-”

“Little foxing around the edges,” Jason finished for him. He shook his head. “We'd all heard that at least once or twice.”

“Or twenty times,” Clint said, and he can't believe that he was affectionate about that, about those damn stupid trading cards. He shook his head.

“So that counts that out. Which leaves us with the third reason not to collect when it's your nature.” Jason leaned on the handle of the cart. “And that's because you're afraid someone you love will disapprove of your collection.” And with that, he just started walking up the aisle, the cart rolling along in front of him. “And that person's approval is more important than that need to collect.”

Clint stared after him. “He doesn't-”

“Try him,” Jason called back. “Either way, let's go get the kids' some toys.”

“Shirley said she was going to get the shotgun if we came back with any more toys,” Clint said, hustling to catch up to him. 

“Yeah, but they don't have any of Hawkeye, either, and they want 'em. But their Uncle Phil never got any.” He glanced at Clint. “Any idea why?”

“Because I'm kinda boring? Or they'll shoot each other with arrows and their mother will kill Phil?” Clint asked, his hands jammed in his pockets.

“Or he didn't want to make things awkward for you,” Jason said. He dodged the cart around a man carrying a half assembled fake Christmas tree. “After all, hard enough to deal with this family as one person, imagine he didn't want you to have to do it as two.”

Clint considered that. “Isn't it kind of egotistical to give kids something like that, something with my logo on it? Seems like something Tony would do.”

“And he's a beloved figure,” Jason said. “Let's go see what the toy section has to offer.”

*

“How'd you get this number?”

Clint paused. “It's publicly listed, Fernanda.”

“You got a smart mouth, boy. Who is this?”

Clint grinned, pushing plastic bags full of Hawkeye branded Nerf 'bows' out of his way as he took a seat at the desk. “Clint.” On the other end of the line, there was nothing but silence, and he let out a sigh. “Clint Barton? From Carson's?”

“Carson's? Carson's what? Johnny Carson's?” she asked, her voice suspicious.

“Do you get calls from Johnny Carson often?” Clint asked, his head falling into the cradle of his palm. “Fernanda-”

She let out a bark of laughter. “Aw, I'm just jerking your chain, Fraaaaaaaancis,” she sing-songed. In the background, Clint heard the springs of her office chair creak as she threw herself into it, and a bang as she dropped her feet onto the desk. “Trust me, niño , you're memorable.”

Clint caught himself grinning at nothing in particular. “So I've heard. How's the museum?”

“People keep expecting me to open it,” she complained. “Damn tourists. How's the arrow biz?”

“Been better,” Clint said. He shrugged. “Been worse, too.”

“I hear that.” She paused. “Ever get that boomerang arrow to work?”

Clint flinched, his hand coming up to his forehead. “No, that one... Never got the kinks out.” He cleared his throat. “I need a favor.”

“Oh, this gonna be rich.” She was laughing, loud and bright, and it was nice to know that some things didn't change. “What does Mr. Big New York Hero want?”

Clint closed his eyes. “I need something, something that you kept when I got out of the life.”

“You know, I've been waiting for this. Knew you'd come back for it one of these days, an' I told myself, when that damn brat comes crawling back here, I'm gonna make him pay.” She was laughing full out now. “You have no idea what this'll cost you, Barton.”

“Pretty sure I do,” Clint said. He rolled to his feet and wandered to the window. The snow glittered under the moonlight. “Don't much care.”

“The man is desperate. Luckily, I like that in my men.” She shifted in her chair. “And since I'm a forward thinkin' woman who knew you'd be worth something someday, we got some options. You care what we go with?”

“I'll trust our judgment.” 

“That's your second mistake today.”

Clint caught himself smiling. “Yeah, well, you know me, Fernanda. I make a lot of 'em.”

“Yeah, you are known for that.”

“Luckily, so are you. That's why you've got it to begin with. Can you send it up here?”

“Pushy, ain't ya?” There was the rustling as he grabbed for some paper. “Got a mailing address for me?”

He rattled it off. “Look, it's a Christmas present. Can you put a rush on it?”

There was a pause. “You're giving this to someone?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Really?”

“What, did you think I wanted it?” He huffed out a laugh. “Be just as glad to never see it again.”

“So, who's the lucky recipient?”

“What do you care?” Clint asked. “You're getting paid either way.”

“I'm a nosy bitch.” She sighed. “Clint, I'd like to help, but you ain't leaving me much time. We're way past the FedEx pickup time, and tomorrow's Christmas Eve. It's not happening.”

“I know.” His shoulders rose and fell in a hopeless shrug. “But I'm not going anywhere any time soon, so...”

“I'll get it to you as soon as I can.” Her chuckle was gleeful. “Now, about my payment...”

Clint's eyes rolled towards the ceiling. “What do you want, Fernanda?”

“I need a new exhibit to bring in the rubes.”

He stopped, shaking his head. “Fernanda. Did you seriously just use the word 'rubes?'”

“Shut up, I have a persona to uphold.“Something from the world famous Hawkeye. Or someone more interesting, maybe you can steal me some of Tony Stark's shoes.”

Clint stared out at the snow. “I'll give you the bow I used during the Battle of New York.”

There was a moment of silence. She sucked in an audible breath. “Clint. That belongs somewhere a bit more important than my third rate tourist trap. The Smithsonian, or something. It's not-”

His eyes fell shut. “I haven't used it since,” he said, his voice still. “It's-” He force a smile onto his face. “I did some good things with it, and some-” He stopped, and swallowed. “Look. It's a relic of a world changing event, what more do you want? Take it or leave it.”

The silence stretched. “I'll take it. 'Cause it seems you don't want it any more.”

“You always were quick to catch on,” Clint said. He pushed away from the wall. “Just send it when you can, okay? I've got stuff to do.” He sucked in a breath, and told himself that he wasn't shaking. “Thanks, Fernanda.”

“De nada. You come see me, next time a disaster brings you my way, you hear?”

“I will.” Clint was already reaching for his bow. It was late, and he needed to take a walk.

*Christmas Eve*

“It's for you.”

Clint blinked at the phone that Jessica was pushing in front of his face. “Oooookay,” he said, taking it. “Hello?”

“Christmas carols?”

Clint grinned. “Shut up, you.” He stepped to the side, getting out of the way of the group as they continued up the sidewalk. The kids led the way, jumping and running in all directions, carol books clutched in mitten covered hands. The adults followed behind, a lot slower, most of them holding travel mugs that still steamed, despite how long they'd been at this. “I blame you,” Clint said to Phil, once the mob had passed him by.

“Seems about right.” He could hear Phil's smile in his voice, and he smiled back. “Where are you?”

“Didn't Jessica-”

“Please, my sisters don't tell me anything, it's punishment for all the times they actually had to obey me as children,” Phil grumbled. “I picked up the phone, and all I could hear was 'Silent Night,' and then Jessica said hello, and then you said hello. I have no idea what's going on.”

“Ah, well, apparently your nephews volunteered the family to go Christmas caroling around. Some groups are at the local hospitals and rest homes. We're out at a retirement community. A lot of nice older folks, popping out to give the kids cookies and candy canes. They're psyched.” Clint tucked his free hand in his pocket. “Your mom thought I needed to get out of the house, and someone's been talking about my singing voice, so I got dragged along.”

“In my defense, you do have a lovely singing voice,” Phil said. He paused. “How're you doing?”

“Fine. We had cookie day yesterday, and then there was Christmas shopping, and now I'm caroling. I'm getting the whole experience.” Just up the walk, the group stopped, breaking into a round of 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.' 

“Anyone recognize you yet?”

“It's dark, I'm wearing a horrific hat and bad glasses and no, since singing is not my usual thing, no one's looked twice at me. Your dad is telling people I'm someone from his community group. No one seems to care, all that much.” He paused. “How're things going back there?”

“Not bad. Nat's made some eggnog that probably needs to be disposed of as toxic waste, and Tony managed to find a tree too big to fit into the main living room, so there was fun with power tools. Steve and Bruce tried to make fruitcake, I don't understand why, but Steve was determined. I think it's more brandy than anything else. And Thor's brought home new boxes of decorations every day.” Phil sighed. “The SHIELD party's next week, so you haven't missed that.”

Clint smiled. “I miss you,” he said.

“I miss you, too, Phil said. “We're working on it. You know that, right?”

“Are you still in the office?” Clint shook his head. “Ass. Go home. Let everyone go home. It's Christmas eve.”

“Fury's still here, can't go home before the boss.”

“Yes. Yes, you can, because I'm pretty sure Fury sleeps in his office.” Clint wandered behind the group, keeping them in sight. “Go home.”

It was silent, for a second. “It's not Christmas without you,” Phil said at last. “You realize how many Christmases we've spent together? Even before-”

“You still owe me like six presents from various holidays where you were insisting that we didn't have 'that sort of relationship,'” Clint said. “Now we do.”

“Relationship gifts aren't retroactive.”

“I say they are, and I'm caroling with your nephews, so I get to be right.”

“Hard to argue with that.” Phil paused “Clint? Do me a favor?” He cleared his throat. “Can you just leave the phone on, and go back to singing?”

Clint grinned. “What, now we're doing a concert for you?”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” A pause. “Please? I miss you, too.”

Clint's eyes closed. “I love you,” he whispered. “Got any requests?”

Phil took an audible breath. “'I'll Be Home For Christmas.'”

Clint's chest ached. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Me, too.”

*

There was a car in the driveway.

“You expecting anyone?” Clint asked Jason and Shirley, leaning forward.

Shirley glanced at Jason, who shook his head. “Don't know him,” he said, squinting through the van's windshield. “He's not trying to sneak around, though, is he?”

That was true. The man was sitting on the front steps of the old farmhouse, right beneath the porchlight, messing with his phone. The car, a late model sedan that Clint pegged as a rental with a single glance, was sitting on the edge of the driveway, empty and pointed up the driveway. Neither it, nor its driver, were positioned for a quick getaway. As the van rolled up the drive, he looked up, squinting as the headlights hit him in the face. There was no sign of a weapon anywhere.

“Wait here,” Clint said.

“I don't think-” Shirley started, and Clint was already sliding out of the van. 

“Wait here,” Clint repeated, and shut the door. He didn't expect trouble, honestly. The only ones looking for him right now were a bit bigger than this guy, and had reddish-pink skin. He wasn't sure what this man was doing on the porch, but he was almost certain he hadn't brought trouble to the Coulsons' front door.

But he wasn't taking any chances. “Can I help you?” he called.

The man looked up when Clint walked up the drive. Barely a man, on second glance. He was nineteen or maybe twenty, broad in the shoulders and heavy set, but with a face that still held traces of childhood softness. His black hair was dusted with snow, and his cheeks were red with the cold. He nodded. “You Barton?” he asked, pushing himself to his feet.

“Yeah,” Clint said, his arms loose at his sides, his gaze sharp. “What can I do for you?”

The boy twisted around, and picked up a long, cardboard mailing tube that had been lying on the porch right behind him. “Fernanda sent me,” he said, holding it out. “Says you needed this for tomorrow.”

Clint blinked at it. “You... “ He took it, the slight weight somehow comforting in his hand. “Tell me you didn't drive, kid.”

“Woulda preferred that,” the boy said, grinning. “Nah, Fernanda called in a couple of favors, got me on a charter flight heading up here.”

“I'm sorry,” Clint said, his fingers tightening on the mailing tube. “You shouldn't have had to-”

“Nah, man, it's cool, I got family up here, my sister and her kids.” The kid was grinning, bright and wide. “I haven't seen 'em in years, I've never even met my youngest niece. So this was great, I get to see 'em, and then I'll head back down to Florida after the holidays, and I didn't have to try to scrape up the money for a ticket.” His head tipped back. “Kinda nice, to see snow on Christmas. It's like the songs. I never got that, white Christmas and all that shit.”

The snow crunched behind him. “Come inside, have a cup of coffee before you go,” Shirley said.

“Thank you, ma'am, but I wanna get on the road so I can get to my sister's place before midnight, you know?” The boy tucked his red hands in his pockets. “She's expecting me, and she's gonna sit up until I get there. I know her. She worries sometimes.”

“Then I'll give you a tin of cookies to take to her,” Shirley said, patting Clint on the shoulder as she passed. Jason tromped up the steps right behind her, nodding at both of them.

The boy's face brightened. “Cookies, cookies I'll take,” he said, grinning. A little shy, a little brazen, he asked, “You got any peanut butter ones?”

“With or without the kisses on top?”

“With, please, ma'am,” he said, so adamant about it that Shirley laughed.

“Tell you what, I'll give you a tin for your sister and her family, and a tin just for you.”

“All right,” the boy said. He grinned at Clint as Shirley headed inside. “Look, man, not to be rude or anything, but-” He paused, his face going impossibly redder. “Fernanda said not to mention it, so could you not tell her? But you're... Hawkeye, right?”

Clint shook his head. “Sometimes,” he said. He pulled his wallet out. “Here,” he said, fishing some bills out, but the boy was already shaking his head. 

“Fernanda paid me,” he said. “You gotta settle up with her.”

“I will,” Clint said, shoving the bills into the boy's hand, leaving him no choice but to take them. “Stop for a cup of coffee, or get your family something extra for Christmas.”

“I shouldn't-”

Clint held up the mailing tube. “This means a lot to me,” he said. “Really.”

The boy grinned, and jammed the money in his pocket. “Hey, does she have, you know, any chocolate chip cookies?”

“I think so. C'mon,” Clint said. “Just a couple of minutes. Come get warm.” He tucked the mailing tube under his arm, relief a subtle warmth in his chest as he opened the front door.

*

His first warning that he wasn't alone was the soft crunch of a booted foot breaking the heavy crust of the snow. It was such a deliberate sound that it didn't even startle him, he just glanced back over his shoulder. Shirley was a few feet behind him, wrapped tight in a huge, heavy red coat. “Everything okay?” he asked.

She moved forward, her steps silent now, a rare trick considering the snow. “Everything is just fine, Clint. You don't have to patrol,” Shirley said, a faint smile on her face.

He paused, his fingers tightening on the arch of his bow for a second. “I'm not,” he said. “Just... Stretching my legs.” It sounded weak, even to his ears. “What are you doing out here? It's cold.”

Shirley huffed out a laugh, the air around her face going ghostly and white for a moment as her breath condensed in the icy stillness. “I noticed,” she said, her voice wry. “It's been cold, the last few nights. And as good as you are, Agent Barton, as quick and quiet as you might be, we're not oblivious to the movements of our own household.” She smiled at him. Her hair was a soft cloud of white, peeking out from below her sky blue hat. “You do not need to patrol.”

“I know,” he said. “I just go kinda stir crazy.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, one shoulder coming up to settle his bow. They crossed the edge of a field, and he paused next to the stone wall that separated it from the woods surrounding it. Without thinking about it, he took a seat, his head tipping back. 

“You're an Iowa boy, aren't you?” Shirley boosted herself up onto the wall next to him. He considered offering her a hand, but he somehow knew it wouldn't be appreciated. When she was settled, her thin frame shoulder to shoulder with him, she let out a sigh. Her breath was a pale haze in the air, snowflakes swirling through it. “You've known your share of prairie winters.”

Clint huffed out a laugh. “What about me makes you think that I ever spent a day on a prairie? I'm no farm boy.”

She smiled, just a little, and in that instant, Clint could see Phil in her, or see her in Phil. In the way her head tipped forward, then back, the way her eyes stared into some middle distance that he couldn't see. He could see Phil in the way she braced herself, the way her hands rested easily on her lap, her shoulders pushed back, her head up.

“You don't need to be a farm boy to know the way that a winter sky can stretch out above you,” she said, her voice quiet. “The way that it can press down on you, the way that when it's cold and clear and dark, you can feel-” She paused. “Exposed. Laid bare.”

“And suffocated, at the same time,” Clint said, his voice quiet. He let out a faint laugh. “There's that,” he said, his voice tired. He rubbed a hand over his face, over his jaw, and his skin tingled at the contact. He wondered how long he'd been out here.

He didn't have to look to know that she had turned her eyes on him. “Clint,” she said, her voice quiet, “I appreciate you putting up with all of this, all week. I know that we're not easy to deal with, sometimes, and-”

“And I'm bad at Christmas,” Clint said. He managed a tight lipped smile. “Phil says, well, he says I try too hard.” One hand came up, and he rubbed hard at the back of his neck. “Guess he's right.” Shirley chuckled, and Clint glanced at her. “What?” he asked, eyebrows arching.

“Nothing,” she said, still smiling. “It's always going to be amusing to me. Phil is so controlled, so precise, so diplomatic, except when it comes to you.” She folded her arms, tucking her gloved hands beneath them. “With you, he's perpetually tripping over his own tongue.” She glanced at Clint. “With you, he always manages to say the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

“It's pretty well known that I'm such a fuckup that it rubs off on people around me,” Clint said, grinning.

“Or he just can't lie to you well,” Shirley said.

Clint's laugh was loud and bright. “Oh, please, he lies to me all the goddamn time, because his job sucks and he sucks when he's doing it.”

She gave him a look. “Oh, and you don't?”

“Never,” Clint said, managing a straight face. “I'm a model employee.”

“I'm telling him you said that, just to hear him laugh,” Shirley said. She scrunched down, wiggling into the shelter of her jacket. “Do you like Christmas, Clint?”

Clint shrugged. “Everyone likes Christmas.”

“No, everyone is bombarded by the idea that we SHOULD love Christmas, and in fact, Christmas is stressful and frustrating and it drains us, financially and emotionally,” she said, her voice matter of fact. “And some people still love it. But there's a sense of guilt, if you don't.” She spread her hands. “What's wrong with you? How can you not love Christmas?”

“Because it's cold and everyone's stressed and frustrated and some of us don't have such good family memories of the season?” Clint asked, a tight smile on his face.

“Maybe that,” Shirley agreed. Her hands fell into her lap. “So maybe when Phil says 'you try too hard,' what he means is, 'I know you're trying to do this for me, and I appreciate that you want me to be happy, but I hate the thought of you pretending to be happy when you're not. Because it feels like a lie, and a lot of people have lied to me, and I hate it when you feel like you have to.'”

Clint stared at her. “Oh, that's what he means?” he asked, his voice wry.

“Maybe,” Shirley said. “What do I know? I'm just his mother.”

Laughing, Clint let his head fall back. “I don't mind, I thought he knew that,” he said at last. “So I've had some lousy fucking Christmases in my life.” He stopped. “The ones with him have been pretty good. So maybe when I'm pretending to be like-” He threw his hands in the air. “'FUCK YEAH CHRISTMAS!' Maybe I'm just trying that on. Maybe it'll fit better, the more I do it. I don't know.”

“Fake it til you make it?” Shirley asked.

“Fake it til you break it,” Clint said. He stopped. “This one's been nice, though.” He swallowed. “Thanks. I know you got stuck with me, but-”

“Stop that, right now,” she said, her voice stern. “We're always happy to have you. I'm sorry it was under such circumstances, but a mother takes what she can get.” She paused, and reached into one pocket. “I have something for you, actually. Since we're discussing Christmas not being so bad.” From the depths of her pocket, she pulled out a square box, wrapped in green and red paper. She handed it over. “Merry Christmas, Clint.”

He took it, with careful fingers. “I'm not a kid, I can wait-” he started, but she shook her head.

“Open it now, please,” she said. “If it's not something your comfortable with, I'd prefer you not have to deal with it in front of everyone.” Her smile was quick and bright. “It's kind of silly.”

Clint rolled the box between his hands, trying not to think about how happy he was to have the damn thing. But she nudged him, gently, her elbow digging into his side, and he pulled the wrapping paper free with a laugh.

It was one of the cute little bobblehead toys that specialized in pop culture personalities and celebrities. They were simple, big head and little, stylized body, no mouth, just big eyes and molded hair. They were cuter than they should've been, and Tony had a whole set of them. He'd been gleeful when he'd started displaying them around the tower, mostly his own damn figures. There were a dozen Iron Man ones, all different armors, and Darcy had come home with a bag full of the others. Nat, with her perfect red hair, and two different versions of Thor, one with and one without his helmet. The Hulk one glowed in the dark. Bruce claimed to hate it, but he had one on his desk in the lab. He'd made it a tiny folded paper hat.

This one, Clint hadn't seen. It had the Avengers logo on the box, but it wasn't any of them. Just a simple little figure in a black suit and sunglasses, face expressionless.

Clint's jaw dropped. “It's Phil,” he breathed out.

Shirley leaned against his shoulder. “It's Phil,” she agreed. “The company has a 'make your own hero' feature. Custom printing.” She smiled as Clint ripped the box open, a little too rough with it, but too far gone to care. “Pam found it, and she thought we should get him with a Captain America shirt, or a Hawkeye shirt, but I thought this suited him best.”

Clint held it up, grinning like an idiot. He rolled the little figure over between his hands, cradling it with careful fingers. “It's perfect,” he said, gleeful. 

Shirley grinned back at him. “We were going to give it to him, actually, but-” Her smile died, a bit. “I don't think that he considers himself a hero. But he's mine. And I thought he might be yours.”

Clint nodded. “Thank you.” He folded the box and tucked it in his pocket, but he kept the toy on his lap. “I'm going to make this one kiss the Hawkeye toy. Every chance I can get to annoy him.”

“I thnk he'd like that.”

“I got you a chia pet,” Clint said.

“Wonderful! I've always wanted one of those,” she said, never missing the beat. “Please tell me it's the hippo.”

“It's the hippo.”

“Lovely.” She paused. “This was just a silly thing. It's not my real gift.” She looked down at her hands. “Less a gift, actually, more an offer,” she said at last. She inhaled, slow and easy, her back going straight. She didn't look at him, her eyes staring off in some middle distance, with a sniper's calm. “I've been out of the game for some time. But I have my contacts, and I have a lot of favors still outstanding. More than that, my people are not...” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “There are circles in the intelligence community, you know this. And most circles guard their work, and their contacts, very jealously.

Her eyes met his. “My work was never with SHIELD. I think that's why Phil went there, or at least part of the reason.” Her lips curled in a slight smile. “He didn't want anyone reporting back on him, and there are still some who feel a loyalty to me.”

“Maybe,” Clint said, “he just didn't want to try to live up to your legend.”

“You're a flatterer,” Shirley said, laughter in her words. “A liar, but a flatterer.” She dusted her hands off on her coat. “What I am trying to say here, is that when I make my inquiries, I don't trip SHIELD's sensors.”

Clint waited, not sure what she was saying.

Shirley took a breath. “I can find your brother.”

In the silence that followed, when even his heartbeat stilled, she looked at him. “If you want me to. I can find him, and I can do it without SHIELD knowing.” Her breath curled from her lips, a fog that obscured her eyes. “Without Phil knowing.”

Clint stared at her, and it was like ice in his veins. And his brain was screaming, a thousand things at once. He struggled for breath, struggled for control. He realized, a bit too late, that his fingers had locked down on the toy, and he made an effort to relax his fingers.

“Phil would have my head.” The words were out before he even knew they were there, before he could even finish thinking them. He let out a breath, a bark of laughter or a sob, and he didn't know which it was. “He would-” He shook his head. “He would think I was crazy, even thinking it.”

Shirley studied him, her face unreadable. “Clint.” 

Clint pushed himself to his feet, the movement jerky and uncontrolled, his body twitching with the force of it. He started pacing, back and forth, his legs aching with the force of it. “He would kill me..”

“No, he wouldn't.” Clint looked back, and Shirley was smiling, just a little. “He might kill someone, but it will not be you.” She patted the rock wall next to her, and Clint stumbled back, collapsing down next to her. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in, pulling him down, until they were huddled into each other's warmth.

“Phil,” she said, her voice careful, “only knows that your brother-” She stopped, her mouth going tight and Clint laughed.

“Are you trying to find a polite way to say that Barney tried to kill me?” he asked.

“It's harder than I would've thought,” she said, making a face. “I used to be better at this.”

Clint let his head drop onto her shoulder, his breath leaving him all at once. “He was my family,” he said at last. “He... Used to be.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “And if you'd offered a few years ago, I probably would've-” He stopped. “No. I would've taken you up on it. No 'probably' about it. Because he was my family, all I had left, for all the things he's done, even though...”

Shirley was silent, and Clint thought about it. “He's my brother, and he was my family, and once, that was all that I would've needed,” he admitted. He looked at Shirley. “I miss him. I miss my mother, sometimes, too, but I miss Barney most of all. Because I could've still had him. My mother's gone. Barney's still here. But it doesn't matter. He's gone. And I guess that's for the best.”

“But you miss him, don't you?”

“I miss who he used to be.” Clint shrugged. “Or who I thought he was. Maybe he was never the person I thought he was, ya know? But I was a kid, and after I lost mom, he was my whole world.” His fingers tightened on the little Phil bobblehead. “I miss them. Him and mom. But there's no going back.” 

Even if he'd wanted to, he knew enough to know it wouldn't end well. Nothing with Barney ended well.

“You wouldn't like him, anyway,” Clint said, trying for humor. “You would've liked my mom, though.”

“I think your mother and I would've gotten along quite well,” Shirley said at last. She stopped, her eyes going heavy lidded, her mouth going tight. “Or perhaps not. She was a better mother than I ever was.”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Phil seems to think you're a pretty good mother.” She glanced at him, and Clint shrugged. “And I tend to trust Phil's judgment when it comes to other people. He's... Good at that.”

Shirley let out a soft little laugh. “Usually, yes. But we all have our blind spots, don't we?” She folded her hands in her lap, the fingers tangling together. “I was a lousy mother, Clint. I made choices, and at the time, I thought they were the right ones.” Her eyes closed, and she let out a breath. “Now, I'm not so sure. But back then, it was so clear. What had to be done. And that I was the one who had to do it.”

Her shoulder brushed Clint's as she shifted her weight, the contact fleeting. “I was very certain of myself, back then. I made my choices, but my choices affected more than me.” She took a deep breath. “I failed my children, so often, and it was Phil who ended up absorbing the impact for his sisters.”

Shirley's smile was sad, melancholy and soft. “I doubt your mother would've approved of my choices.”

Clint smiled, a little lopsided. “She'd probably be worried yo wouldn't have approved of hers.”

Shirley laughed, and her lashes were wet. “I would have approved, one hundred percent. At the very least, she deserves the benefit of the doubt, and my thanks.” She stood, drawing herself up with a real act of will. “After all, I love her son.”

Clint's eyes burned. “Yeah, well, I love yours. So I guess you deserve the benefit of the doubt, too.”

She stood there in silence for a moment, and then she reached out, thin hands cradling his cheeks. Her lips were gentle against his forehead, and his eyes fell shut. “Thank you, Clint,” she whispered.

He had to swallow twice, before he could manage words. “Thank you,” he said. He looked up, and there were tears on her cheeks. “I don't think that Phil blames you for any of that,” he managed.

“Sometimes,” she said, her voice very quiet, “we forgive the ones we love. Not because they deserve it, but because we feel like giving it.” She took a step back, holding a hand out. “It's late,” she whispered. “And Christmas morning is coming fast. Let's go home.”

Clint pushed himself to his feet, tucking the toy into the pocket of his coat. 

*Christmas Morning*

“Merry Christmas.”

Clint didn't open his eyes. Maybe it was a dream, and maybe it wasn't, but as long as his eyes were closed, he didn't have to find out. “Merry Christmas, Phil,” he said, his voice a slow, warm rumble. 

Phil's chuckle was soft and familiar. “Wake up, Agent Barton, I've got something for you.”

Clint pried one eye open. “'Agent Barton,'” he said, then had to stop to yawn. “Kinky.”

“You're the one who's sleeping in my bed,” Phil said, flicking at the tip of Clint's nose with one finger. Grinning, Clint batted his hand away, and Phil's hand was real and solid in his fingers. “Hey, there,” Phil said. His hand twisted in Clint's, tangling their fingers together. “Up and at 'em.”

“No,” Clint said. But he opened his eyes fully to grin up at Phil. He was smiling, wearing an unfamiliar gray t-shirt and holding a coffee cup in his other hand. “That for me?” Clint asked.

“Might be.” Phil set it down on the bureau and pulled a box out of his pocket. “This, too. Merry Christmas.”

Clint shoved a hand through his hair. “You shouldn't have,” he said, even as he felt his lips curl up in a grin. 

“Yes, I definitely should have, and did.” Phil settled down next to him. “Open it.”

“I can't believe you didn't bother to wrap it,” Clint said. “Lazy.”

“Your lazy must be rubbing off on me,” Phil said, as Clint pulled the ribbon free and lifted the lid. In the silence that followed, Clint stared down at the small metal disc. “Do you like it?” Phil asked.

“I don't know what it is, but sure. I like shiny things,” Clint said, and Phil was trying his best to hold a straight face. Clint gave him a look. “Okay, enlighten the dumber members of the audience, what the hell is it?”

Phil leaned in and picked up the disc. “What you've been asking me for, the last few weeks,” he said. “Lift up your shirt.”

“Aw, did you go to the sex shop without me?” Clint asked, dragging his t-shirt up his chest. He watched, only mildly curious, as Phil pressed the disc against his breastbone, and leaned in.

“Can you stop it with that smart mouth of yours for thirty seconds?” Phil asked, his mouth almost touching Clint's. 

Clint grinned. “You know I can't,” he said. “Pretty sure that's why you started kissing me, Coulson. To shut me up for a couple of seconds?”

“Can you shut up for a couple of seconds?” Phil said, the words whispered against Clint's mouth.

“Can you kiss me?” Clint shot back, and Phil was laughing when he did just that.

He'd missed this, and that was pathetic, it had been like a damn week, but he'd missed this so much. His mouth parted under the pressure of Phil's lips, easily, happily. Warmth bloomed in his chest, sweeping through him, and he sank into the kiss. Sank into Phil's touch. Sank into the heat.

His eyes flew open, shock rolling through him as the heat flared, sharp and hard. Not enough to hurt, there was nothing like pain in it, but it came and went so suddenly that it left him shuddering in its wake. He broke away, gasping for breath, and Phil pulled the now glowing metal disc away from his chest.

“And that's it,” Phil said, his face flushed, as he tugged Clint's shirt back down. 

Clint blinked. “That's it?” He watched, his mouth hanging open just a little, as Phil put the disc back in the box. “That's... It?” His hand slipped under his shirt, rubbing against the tingling skin of his chest. “What the fuck, Phil?”

“Merry Christmas,” Phil said, closing the box. “You are no longer the vessel for an alien life force, courtesy of our friends at SHIELD R and D.”

The relief was so stunning that for a second he was dizzy, and he collapsed back against the pillows. The laughter bubbled out of him, loud and sharp and a little hysterical. He pressed his hands against his face. “That's IT?”

“That's it.”

Clint peered at him from beneath his fingers. “You fucker,” he said, grinning, and Phil smiled back at him. “That's all you got me for Christmas?”

Phil's eyebrows arched. “I kept an alien civilization from shooting you in the face. I think I deserve some credit for that.”

Laughing, Clint rolled over. “Fucker,” he said, because Phil was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand rubbing the nape of Clint's neck. “I'm breaking up with you.”

Phil hummed under his breath. “I'd hold off on that, if I were you. At least until after breakfast. Mom's making cinnamon buns. And caramelized brown sugar waffles.”

“Fuck that,” Clint said, snuggling down into his pillow. Phil's fingers were still rubbing, massaging his neck, and Clint wanted to purr. “I'm breaking up with you and keeping your family.”

“That's going to make the family gatherings a bit difficult, isn't it?”

“Only for you.” Clint reached back, catching Phil's wrist, and pulling his hand down. He pressed a kiss against Phil's palm, letting his lips linger against the skin there, just to feel Phil's hand twitch in reaction. “Only for you,” he repeated, and he tugged again. “It's early. C'mon, I've been dreaming of seducing you in this bed for a damn week, and we've-”

There was a knock at the door, or a bunch of knocks, hands hammering against the wooden panel. “Hold that thought,” Phil breathed. He straightened up. “I'm working on it!” he called.

There was a pause. “Is he up?” Sam's bright, piping voice was pitched to carry, and Clint flopped face first into the pillow. There was a creak as the door opened.

“He is not up, obviously,” Phil said. He sounded amused. Clint refused to open his eyes enough to check on that. It was too damn early for any of this.

“Uncle Phil, you SAID you'd get him up!” Bradley said. He sounded distinctly put out by the delay, and Clint grinned into his pillow.

“I'm working on it, go on back downstairs.”

“Gramma says we can't open any presents until everyone's up,” Sam said.

“You can't open up any presents until after we've eaten breakfast,” Phil said, and Clint dragged his pillow over his head. 

“He's totally awake,” Bradley said, triumphant. There was the sound of little bare feet tromping across the floor, and when he spoke again, his voice was much closer. “Uncle Clint, there's cinnamon buns.”

“With walnuts. And frosting,” Sam said. When that proved ineffective, he tugged at Clint's pillow. Clint pinned it in place with both hands, trying not to laugh.

“There is not a cinnamon bun big enough to get me out of bed right now,” Clint mumbled, but it was a tempting thought. Even as he tried to ignore it, he caught a whiff of the aroma of fresh baked goods, sugar and yeast and toasted nuts curling through the early morning air. His traitorous stomach had other ideas, letting out an audible rumble.

“Out, monsters,” Phil said, his hand coming down, warm and familiar, on the small of Clint's back. “Give me more than five minutes.”

“Uncle Clint?” Bradley asked, his voice wheedling.

“I'm getting up, I'm getting up,” Clint said, pushing the pillow away. “Give me a second here.” No one moved. “Not a literal second guys, geeze, c'mon-”

“Out,” Phil said, his voice stern now. “Tell Gramma we'll be down in fifteen minutes.” Both boys started to whine, less words and more just objecting sounds, and Phil sighed. “Out. Or it'll be thirty.”

They went.

“That's the take-charge guy we all know an' love,” Clint said, smiling at nothing in particular. He rolled over onto his back, his arms thrown out to flop over the edges of the narrow bed. “Your family is exhausting.”

“I have mentioned that a few times. Nice that you finally have some sympathy for me.” The bed dipped as Phil shifted his weight, and his hand came down over Clint's breastbone, pressing down gently. “Did you get me something for Christmas?” he asked, his eyes dancing.

Clint covered Phil's hand with his own, taking a deep breath. “I know I suck as a boyfriend and shit, but yeah, I got you something.” He sat up, reaching over towards the bedside table. The mailing tube was there, just behind the lamp, and he snagged it one handed, tossing it to Phil. “Here. Merry Christmas, Coulson.”

Phil blinked. “I was just joking,” he said, his hand coming up to catch the mailing tube instinctively. “You didn't need to-”

“Yeah, could you just open it before I think too hard about this?” Clint ran both hands through his hair before he let them fall back into his lap. “Just-” He huffed out a breath, his shoulders coming up in a defensive posture. “Just open it.”

Phil's eyes came up, sharp and bright, but he pried the end of the tube open and slid the contents out with a flick of his wrist. The paper was yellowed and rough at the edges, tied carefully with string rather than secured with an elastic. Phil set the tube aside and untied the string, unrolling the fragile paper with careful hands. For a second, his eyes narrowed, not understanding, and then they went wide, his pupils big and black and his breath rushing out of him in a huff. 

“I know you like propaganda,” Clint said, in the silence that followed. “So...” He shifted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah.”

It had actually been done in the style of the old WWII propaganda posters. The artist had been clever like that. She had been a wild girl with a smart mouth, clever hands, and a head of glossy black curls. She'd favored men's overalls rolled halfway up her legs, and her back pockets had always contained a flask, a switchblade, and a set of colored pencils honed to a razor sharp point. Clint had adored her.

Maybe she'd adored him, too, at least a bit, because the poster had been one of the better ones she'd done for the traveling carnival.

She'd painted Clint from behind, naked to the waist, a quiver bisecting his back, one hand coming up to pull an arrow free. His face was in profile, the sharp jut of his jaw and nose balanced by the curve of his lips and the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks. His hair was a spiky sort of crown, and his eyebrow was arched. It was a work of heavy strokes, the broad, muscular lines of Clint's bare body, the dark purple of the quiver that bisected his back. His black arm guard was heavy against his wrist, against his hand, and his fingers were almost delicate in comparison.

The single arrow that rested between his fingers, the feathers brushing light on his skin, was only a threat because there was a promise in that half-hidden smile. If he set that arrow against his string, it was going to hit what he aimed for.

The poster read, “The Amazing Hawkeye, Master Marksman.”

“Oh, my God,” Phil breathed.

“I think I look pretty good,” Clint said, wrapping his arms around his upthrust knees. “I mean. My back does.”

“Oh, my GOD,” Phil said.

“She was sleeping with me at the time, so she had plenty of time-”

“Where did you GET this?” Phil asked.

“I know a lady. She runs a circus museum down in the winter stomping grounds in Florida. She, uh, she's been buying up leftovers from tours for decades,” Clint said. “I knew her. When I was a kid.” He shifted, his fingers digging into the sheets. “She always told me she was gonna hold onto any of my posters because I was cute, so...” He stopped. “This was stupid, wasn't it?”

Phil looked up, and his grin was huge, he looked like a child, he looked like a little boy on Christmas morning. “I've never even SEEN one of these!”

Clint exhaled, relief flooding him. “What, have you been looking for one?”

“Of course, of COURSE I have.” Phil flopped back down on the bed, holding the poster up above him. He was laughing, bright little giggles of laughter. “It's you. Of course-” He stared up at the poster. His head rolled in Clint's direction. “You're really okay with me having this? Because you know I'm going to frame it.”

Clint felt his face heat. “That's a waste of a frame.”

“I'm going to frame it and hang it,” Phil said, smiling. “And kiss it good-bye every morning.” Clint grabbed a pillow and swung it at his face. Laughing, Phil fended him off with one hand. “No! Don't- The poster!”

“You and your collections,” Clint said, and Phil was laughing. But he was also amazingly careful with the poster as he rolled it up and slid it back into the mailing tube. “It's a cheap poster of a sideshow attraction, Phil.”

“It's you.” Phil stood, putting the mailing tube on the bureau. “You don't...” He looked up, meeting Clint's eyes. “You don't always like to talk about your past.”

“That's because it sucked,” Clint said, cheerfully. “Which is why I suck at Christmas, and Christmas presents, and if you think this is bad, I also got you a chia pet shaped like Thor.”

“Not going to lie, I'm looking forward to that.” Phil sat down next to him, and leaned in for a kiss. Clint smiled, even as Phil's lips brushed against his. “You know what?” Phil murmured. 

“What?” Clint asked, eyes opening.

“You need to brush your teeth,” Phil said, and Clint put a hand to his face, shoving him away. Phil was laughing as he twisted out Clint's grip. “Merry Christmas, Clint. It's the best present I've ever gotten.”

“The poster?”

“You, in this bed,” Phil said. “But the poster's nice, too.”

Laughing, Clint flopped back against the pillows. “Give me one good reason to get out of this bed,” he said, rubbing his face with both hands. “Ugh, I need a shave.”

“I don't know, I like you scruffy,” Phil said, his palm smoothing over the line of Clint's jaw. He leaned in, brushing another kiss on Clint's mouth, and then his forehead. “And I can give you five good reasons to get out of this bed.” 

“What-”

“BARTON!” What was clearly Tony's voice came echoing up the stairs. “They are withholding food from us until you bother to get your diva ass down here! I am up at an ungodly hour and there are pastries down here the size of my head, and they will not let me eat them until you bother to put in an appearance!”

Clint stared at Phil. “You brought Stark.”

“I brought everyone,” Phil agreed. “It's Christmas.” He turned to the bureau, and picked up the coffee cup he'd set there, holding it out to Clint. “Which means we should both be with family.”

Clint took the cup. “Bite your fucking tongue, no, not my family, bunch of fucking loons, that's what they are. And I don't know why you'd think that bringing them would make me want to do anything other than lock the damn door.”

Phil's eyebrows arched. “It's Christmas, Clint.”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” Clint said, focused on the coffee now.

Phil leaned in. “There's a Coulson family rule about Christmas.”

Clint froze, the cup at his mouth. “Are they all-”

“Rules are rules, Clint.” Phil stood up. For the first time, Clint realized that he was wearing a pair of pajama pants covered in arrows and bullseyes, and his t-shirt read, “Zombies're coming, grab your best archer.”

“How bad?” Clint asked, glee washing over him.

“Starks' involve purple and pink alpacas. He insists they are llamas, I'm not certain why that's better, but he seems to believe that it is.” Phil was smiling, just a little. “Bruce's are tie-dyed, Steve's have 'I heart NY' logos, Nat was kind enough to wear a purple and blue set that matches Mary Margaret's, and Thor has red and black plaid set.” He paused, his eyebrows arching. “He looks like a lumberjack.”

Clint considered that. “Okay,” he said at last, and tossed the blankets off. “That's a reason to get up.” He paused. “We're having sex in this bed.”

Phil's eyebrows arched, a mildly inquisitive look crossing his face. “We are?”

“Fuck right we are.” Clint paused. “Merry Christmas. I kinda love your crazy, probably fatal family.”

Phil smiled. “Merry Christmas.” He stood up. “I reluctantly love your insane, super powered family.”

“Oh, not a chance. They are yours, too.”

Another knock on the door. “Everybody decent?” Shirley asked.

“Never,” Clint said.

“Yes, mom,” Phil said, and the door opened.

“Well?” Shirley asked. “We coming?”

“We're coming,” Clint agreed. “Nice pajamas.”

She looked down. The Avengers logo was prominent on her t-shirt. “I need to support my boys,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

Clint nodded, and let Phil pull him out of bed. “Merry Christmas.”


End file.
